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Canderous knows there are eyes on him.
He's used to it now. He certainly wouldn't be where he is if he didn't pick up on that prickle at the nape of his neck that meant he was either in danger or the subject of someone's blatant desire. Usually the former. Sometimes both. Canderous still isn't quite sure he can tell the difference with Van.
Van isn't subtle. Or, at least, Van is only subtle when they want to be. It's a few hours into the Ebon Hawke's night cycle, in that quiet calm of hyperspace. Most everyone had retired some time ago. HK is idling in a dark corner of the workshop, eyes dark, and Canderous had allowed himself to put the droid at his back for a moment. The only light is the overhead lamp shining onto the workshop table and the track lights dotting the steel floors of the ship.
Leaning on the entrance to the workshop, arms folded, Van is allowing themselves to be noticed. Begging for attention - no, not quite. Something in the way they hold themselves demands it. Like they're used to it. Being watched is simply second nature. Canderous doesn't look up from what he's doing.
The footsteps that creep up behind him fall with just as much certainty as anything else Van does. Every footfall could be silent, but Van is playing a game, so Canderous works a wire brush into the barrel of the blaster he has pulled apart in front of him and pretends to be listening to the ambient hum of the Ebon Hawk in flight.
A chin tucks over the curve of Canderous' shoulder. Slender fingers curl around his biceps as Van leans in, body pressed up behind Canderous to see what he has spread out on the workbench. Blaster rifle pieces, nothing special; Van had taken the weapon from the hands of a freshly dead Mandalorian somewhere back on Kashyyyk, had flicked bloodied strands of hair out of their face as they tossed Canderous the rifle with some half breathless, "Looks better on you, anyway."
It's a good rifle. Mandalorian make, of course, and the craftsmanship holds up, even if the metal is scuffed in places and the trigger is a bit sticky. Rather than react, Canderous leans forward to grab for a rag soaked in machine oil. There is no outward reaction to being touched, because Canderous doesn't allow it, but he knows Van is privy to the way his shoulders tense.
"What are you doing?" Van's voice is quiet, but next to Canderous' ear, it rumbles with a certain depth. To their credit, they sound genuinely curious.
Canderous grunts. "What's it look like?" The rifle parts begin to snap together cleanly as he assembles it. Delicate screws and pins are set in place with fingers more deft than anyone ever gives him credit for, and eyes keener than they should be given his age. Canderous likes this. It's... some would call it meditative, but that sounds too soft. It's problem solving.
"Like you're working when you should be sleeping."
"You're up," Canderous says pointedly, finally glancing over his shoulder at Van. He catches a twinkle in their eye as a smile splits their mouth, almost hidden by the fall of dark hair Van refuses to cut.
"Jedi don't need to sleep as often," Van says sagely, folding in to sit on the bench behind Canderous. They're not taller than him, but their limbs seem spidery, lean and long as their legs splay along the bench to bracket his own thighs. Canderous finds himself scooting forward to give them room. Hooking their arms over his shoulders, Van leans their temple against his.
Canderous snorts as he returns his attention to reassembling the rifle. He doesn't respond to that comment. Doesn't need to. Van already knows how ridiculous it sounds.
"Fifteen hours left in hyperspace," Van continues. "You should get some sleep before Carth takes over the helm."
"Where to this time?"
"Manaan."
"Ugh."
Van chuckles. The noise rumbles in their chest where it's pressed against Canderous' back. "Only for a refuel," they say, fingers idling along the tender flesh inside Canderous' elbow. "Then it's back to Dantooine for a while."
"That isn't much better," Canderous says. He gestures at the rifle half assembled in front of him. "I was looking forward to using this."
Shrugging, Van hooks their fingers to drag nails up his arm. He shivers despite himself. "Czerka has us stalled out on Tatooine, and the Council has been antsy since Kashyyyk. They want to hear how it's going."
"Sounds like a waste of time to me."
"It is," Van agrees. "But we have fifteen hours to kill until Manaan anyway. Tell me a story."
Canderous snorts again, rolling his eyes. "I think you've about tapped me out for war stories," he says. That's a lie. He has more war stories than any one man has a right to, and Van knows it by the way they hide a smile against his neck.
"Then tell me a different kind of story."
"Not that kind of storyteller, kid."
Humming, Van pauses the ministrations of their fingers. Pulling a bit of skin between their fingers, they pinch him lightly - retribution for Kid, he suspects, though the sting only makes Canderous smirk.
They shift gears. Hands drawing up, Van once again hooks fingers over his shoulders and squeezes. "What does it feel like when you pull the trigger on your rifle?"
Canderous blinks. Frowns. "It doesn't feel like anything," he says.
"Wrong," Van says, and Canderous knows that tone of voice. He's heard it before, usually directed at mercenaries or traders, or people Van simply doesn't want to deal with. Van wants something. Van wants to find a thread and follow it with the kind of obsessive behavior the Jedi usually frown upon.
The quest for the Star Maps is one such thread, as is every conversation Canderous has overhead between Van and Carth - Van starts sussing out a secret or an untruth, and cannot let it go until they figure out what it is.
It's usually easier to just stand back and let Van do the digging. Canderous vividly remembers how they'd run into a murder investigation out in the plains of Dantooine, how Van's eyes had gleamed at the prospect of a puzzle to unravel. It had been almost too easy to drag the truth out of the pair of suspects, but there hadn't been any force involved. If it were up to Canderous, there would have been threats of bodily harm until one of the idiots had stopped lying and fessed up. Van, though. Van had played them so well, neither of them had even known they were being handled.
If it were any other Jedi, Canderous would have dismissed it. Anyone other than Van, and he would've chalked it up to a Jedi's inborn urge to right wrongs and fix problems. But Van... the gleam in Van's eye has always had an edge. It's not about fixing the problem. It's just about proving that Van is better. Smarter - clever enough to untangle people's secrets with the kind of finesse most people lack. It's about control.
Pretty Mandalorian, in some ways. Canderous tries not to think about it.
One hand spans along Canderous' chest, seeking his heartbeat beneath the plain cotton of his undershirt. Van's hand is warm, fingers slender but unmistakably sturdy. There are calluses in the shape of lightsabers, of blasters and quarterstaves, so Canderous allows them to draw along his skin. Van's voice drops. "What does it feel like, Ordo?" They murmur. "In here?"
Canderous is sure Van can feel the thud of his heart. It's not racing or anything silly like that - he's a warrior, and an old man besides - but he knows it doesn't need to be for Van to tell that he's... compromised. He curls his fingers around one of the rifle parts still strewn across the workbench, just for something to hold.
He is a logical man. He knows that pulling the trigger is a mechanical response from electrical signals in his brain. From his spine to his arm to his finger, pulling a trigger is breathtakingly simple and not at all something he thinks about. He just does it.
But that isn't the answer Van wants.
Wetting his mouth, Canderous sighs. "It feels like..." he trails off. "Like breathing. Like blinking. Like my own heart beating in my chest."
The smile pressed against the skin of his throat widens. Van hums again, fingers curling. "Poetry," they purr, eyes falling closed. "Like going home again, Canderous."
Canderous opens his mouth before he can think about it. Shuts it with a click. One of Van's liquid brown eyes cracks open and they straighten, head tilted in a silent question. The hand over his heart suddenly feels much too present, and Canderous knows it's easier to commit than it is to have Van feel like he's keeping something from them. He asks, only somewhat reluctantly, "What does the Force feel like?"
Surprise colors Van's expression. "Interested in Force philosophy, Canderous?" They ask, sounding genuinely surprised. "If I'd known, I would have set you up with Jolee and Juhani."
Grimacing, he rolls his eyes and twists to poke Van in the chest with the piece of machined durasteel in his hand. "Fair's fair," he says. "Cough it up."
A smile brightens Van's face, seeming at odds with the way their scars twist along their chin and cheek, pulling the flesh taut. "It depends on how you access it, I suppose," Van says. "I've never felt that the cold logic of the Jedi feels like much. Feeling is antithesis of the Code, after all. Like... holding your breath. A pressure. It irritates."
Canderous lifts an eyebrow. "And?"
Van's smile turns indulgent. "And what?"
"You know what. Don't play games."
In response, Van simply fans their hand along Canderous' arm, fingers tracing the contour of muscle under the skin and the silvery blue of old scars leftover from battles even he doesn't remember. "The dark side," Van murmurs, eyes cast towards where their hand is creeping towards Canderous'. "Is something of a misnomer, I feel. It does not feel dark. It simply feels... warm. Like a lover's touch. A kiss."
Van wraps careful fingers around Canderous' hand to turn it palm up. They work his fingers open deftly, removing the piece of metal from his grip until his fingers splay open. Canderous watches as Van traces a fingertip along the lines of his palm, gentle and yet present enough that his mind can't wander far from the sensation. "Perhaps that is what makes it so seductive."
He thinks about watching Van's eyes bloom yellow, like twin suns behind the crackling power of Force lightning. Thinks about their face contorted out of the placid expression they wear for the council's sake, deepened into snarling, animal rage as their twin lightsabers whip an impenetrable dome of yellow and red. Thinks about how Van had flicked long dark hair out of their face, mouth parted, yellow fading from their eyes as the battle frenzy died. How they'd tossed that rifle to him with a cheeky grin and for the briefest second, he'd almost dropped it right on his toes.
"Like dipping your hands into warm water." Van's voice is a rumbling echo as Canderous watches their fingertips trace the blue lines of veins in his wrist. There's a buzz in their fingers. Canderous may not know the Force from Jack, but he can recognize their force signature by now. It settles around Van like a suit of armor, a palpable feeling that leaves the air smelling like ozone and Canderous' mouth tasting like copper. He thinks they must hide this from Bastila. They must, unless Van wants her running to the council to report that Van might not be the savior everyone hopes they are.
He can feel a hum in the very back of his skull of what's leftover from his primitive lizard brain. Danger, it says as the weight condenses around Revan and their eyes burn into a hypnotic gold. There is danger here.
There's near relief in that weight. Canderous almost wants to throw himself into it, to settle in the depths like its home and it's all the warmth that Van is promising. He understands what they mean about going home again - that if the dark side was home, he might never leave it. No wonder Revan and Malak had turned.
At once, the weight of it vanishes and Canderous is left feeling dazed. Van isn't touching him anymore, their hands braced on their thighs as they lean back with a chuckle. "You look tired," Van says kindly, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You should really get some sleep, Canderous. Fourteen hours til Manaan. The rifle will be there in the morning."
Pushing to their feet, Van runs a hand along Canderous' short hair and heads for the exit, feet silent on the metal floor. They hit the light on their way out and the workshop is plunged into darkness.